At the end of the day, I sometimes find that grown-ups are highly underrated. The way they usually look at you when you're speaking to them. And agree that it's not nice to interrupt someone who's speaking or make fun of someone's appearance right in front of them. Grown-ups talk about that person later, in hushed tones, and often apologize for saying the devilish thing they say.

That, I can deal with.

But the whining, interruption (often whining interruptions), and general pain-in-the-assedness of some children has permanently damaged me. Penetrated my very soul, my friends. Cade was walking around this evening when I called him from work. I invited him to walk some long blocks to Harlem and meet up with me. He's never been inside the school where I work.

I didn't even finish the email I have to send about some kid I had to remove from Photography class before Cade arrived. He came upstairs, admired my penmanship on some classroom charts, and got bored. The school seemed so calm, I'm sure. Half an hour after dismissal, school is a tranquil disaster area. Smudged and upside-down and dog-eared, but quiet.

When we walked outside, we saw a tiny boy no older than five playing on a scooter. Cade smiled and said, "Look how cute he is." I looked him dead in the eye. "That makes me feel nothing." He shrugged. "Work with children for more than three days and you, too, won't look at children the same way ever again," I sighed. Perhaps to keep things smooth between us and play the part of the sympathetic significant other, he agreed.

And then he stuck his tongue out at me.

Ten Things I Want To Write About In List Form, As I Am Bovinely Lazy, Err, I Mean Tired...Tired From Very Hard Work

10) I think I have a ringworm on my back from one of the oozing, pus-filled Rocawear-sporting germs I work with. I've named it Raheem.

9) I think I also have chronic fatigue syndrome.

8) I think I might be a hypochondriac, too.

7) One of my classes read a play today. When it got to one student's part, he opened his mouth to read and FARTED THE LOUDEST FART EVER. I really tried to be the teacher and not embarrass him, but I had to cover my face with the script and rocked with silent convulsive laughter long after my students were over it. They were actually reading on as a class, and I felt like my head was about to explode. Perhaps this is further proof I shouldn't educate America's youth.

6) I wish I could wear yellow without looking macabre.

5) I saw these new Pringles at Duane Reade - further proof that those damned foodies are taking over the world. When I eat crappy junk food, I want it to taste like, look like, and smell like crappy junk food. Is that so wrong?
4) I saw The Namesake and loved it, thanks for asking.

3) The cover of the new-release Posh looks too much like the cover of Prep. I think it's designed to trick less alert readers into thinking it's a sequel.

2) One of my co-workers flashed me today. She teaches math.

1) My photography students are currently working on portraits. Last Thursday, they learned how to use the cameras and tomorrow we're going to learn more about portraits, review their work from last week, and try to take better portraits. One lesson in the tutorial is "Why We Shouldn't Make Gang Signs." Some students need more work than others. I love this photo taken by one of my stellar students so much that I converted it to sepia.

You Are 24% Texas

You're as welcome in Texas as a skunk at a lawn party.

How Texas Are You?

God(s)/Allah/Whom or Whatever must read my blog, for the weather was beautiful today. Thanks for that, dude(s). I always knew I'd move to New York someday and become a sort of Northeastern elitist, but I never thought I'd become a Northeastern pansy. Seventy-seven degrees outside now, and I'm walking around in a sweater, thinking, "It's hot! Oh, jolly! Too bad I forgot to put on deodorant this morning!" (I did. Sometimes I do that when I remember other things, like wiping all the crust out of my eyes).

After work, Cade and I met at my apartment and then took a walk. We set foot in Central, Morningside, and Riverside Parks. Ladies and gents, I actually wore flip flops for the first time in 2007! And I got a blister on my foot for the first time in 2007! Next time, I'll wear more sensible shoes, but wow, it was amazing to walk around and not wear a coat. I'm trying very hard to refrain from gratuitous exclamation point use here, but it's difficult. The nice weather has made me almost...cheerful.

I swear, it's really me. No, seriously.

After a long hypoglycemic walk, The Boyfriend and I ate a dinner of fried chicken and sides on a park bench. Cade bet that we'd be asked for money at least once. He was right. We watched people casually go about their personal lives near their large, street-facing apartment windows. That's always fun, and even better with corn on the cob, sleeves rolled up.

Adventures in Signage, Pt. 5

I suggest it was Sargent Crabapple, in the billiard room, with the candlestick.

Hardwere? Hardware? Where?

The only wing place I ever frequented (for about a year before coming to my gastronomical senses) has the slogan, "If you don't like our wings, we'll give you the bird!" Too bad Pluck U. didn't think of it first...

One of the more clever laundromat names out there, appropriately located in Cambridge.

Just in case people don't get that this is more or less the place of eventual death of all who enter, let's put lethal amounts of poison at the entrance to the senior center! Great idea!

I'd love to see how they'd compare my underwear drawer to Dick Cheney.

Gray smudges of days have passed, days I've not been moved to write anything more than a to-do list. That's me - always much ado about to-do. Even now, I force my weight onto the stirring stockinged feet folded under me. Teeth gritted, I scold myself, "You will not move from this chair until you write something, anything. Do not even think about posting a photograph."

These days between winter and spring are the ultimate limbo. The snow has thawed from the ground, but the forecast is still off. I wore my downcoat again today, legs shuddering under the skirt that mistook now for its season. There's a Counting Crows song where the lead singer bemoans everything he needs but doesn't have, including a raincoat, a phonecall, a free ride. That part about a sunburn - I totally get it now.

Days like these, all I want is what I'm not getting. (I wish I just needed adequate sunlight, too). My guess is that the frayed saffron heads of daffodils feel the same way. I want to be out of in-between, growing-into and in the meat, the heady blossom, of a new season.

"Pizza face" - a new twist on an old insult.

The Color of Winter






*Cade took these last weekend. I love how they look like colorized black and white photos.

I'm having a quick conference with Sal, one of my most charming, if confused, students.

Me: Sal, do you know what text you're going to choose for your fluency assessment? You're going to have to read it out loud.

Sal: Yeah.

Me: What have you chosen?

Sal: Uh... [He smiles and his eyes dart to a bin of magazines for kids.]

Me: It's next week. You have to start practicing. Have you chosen anything?

Sal: Yeah, a poem.

Me: What poem?

Sal: Some poem about birds and bees. From the Internet.

Me: About the birds and the bees?

Sal: Some birds and some bees. And motion.

Me: Motion? Like movement?

Sal: [He looks at me like I'm crazy.] No, like feelings.

We learned of the final project on the first day of Lit and Culture of the 1960's. Like all senior seminars, the culmination of the semester was a 12-point font, annotated behemoth and a class presentation - the kind of project that sounded like a deathbed so far in the future in September, like the click of a gun barrel against your head in November.

I met her through this class. She goes by an unspoken name, she whom I don't really know, but of whom I have seen hundreds of pictures. I've read an intimate account of her childbirth. Seriously, I could tell you about her episiotomy, but I've never talked to her. She made a Powerpoint of her project on her website, unwittingly securing herself a stalker for life. (That'd be me).

It's not that she's that interesting really. She has a kid and an English degree. She doesn't climb mountains or backpack anywhere or live a fast-paced life - none of the things we generally consider "interesting." Like me, she doesn't write about everything she does, so I suppose I can't be a genuine stalker. But she writes about things that never come out in a senior seminar, in most interactions, in anything she'd ever have said to me if I spoke to her in class. I guess this is why I used to check her website often, loving the updates and fancying myself familiar enough to judge. Of course, that doesn't require so much familiarity on or offline for any of us.

After I read about her divorce, a huge life event she never blogged about that I thus, never saw coming, she stopped writing. She was juggling joint custody of her son, moving into a tiny apartment, and looking for a job. The website took a back burner to basic survival. I stopped visiting and moved on. Yesterday, I remembered her.

I typed in the familiar address and read a rambling post about the history of her website. She has taken it all down, minus the recent post, deciding she no longer knows what to post, that she is no longer the person who started the site. My old haunt has been boarded up.

I won't say this to this woman whose name I have never spoken, but I feel a little sad. I will wonder about her and wish her the best unwritten life out there. And I'll probably keep checking her website anyway.

*I guess I might be trying to say that I understand the tenuous connection between blog and reader or website and lurker. So I'm trying to be understanding of those of you who are emailing me and asking me to be the godmother of your children and on your emergency contact employment paperwork. But still. I don't know you freaks.

She's the box on the calendar with "Spring begins" in italics. And she's a favorite song played over and over until every beat is the irregular heartbeat she was born with. She's a creaky voice late at night, the bed smelling like dirty dog and clean laundry.

She lives on "just because" and hand-me-ups, piles of things she gives to people who seldom give to her. No, she won't tell them you cursed or lied or why you really broke up with him. She is promise and promised.

Most of all, she is who I am. Who we are. She is often that voice that could be my own. Sometimes someone so foreign I can't believe we share those same origins, those chromosomes, that shirt.

She is my sister. Tomorrow she's twenty-two, but always she's love.

Season's End

An email from my boss about tomorrow's visit by a professional photographer:

The focus this year will be on taking "happy" photos. Many of the photos from the past have been more serious/intense with kids and teachers caught in the act of learning. This year we want to take a lot of photos of groups of kids/teachers smiling and appearing very happy. These may be more staged than in the past. Please make every effort to help with this.

*Heh. I do believe those "happy" pics will definitely be more staged.

HORNS UP:

*Hooray for customer service in Texas! Every time I call a business in Texas, I'm taken aback at how friendly - the friend of a friend offering me a glass of tea kind of friendly - people are. I called an alumni relations office at my alma mater a few days ago, and my heart went pitter patter when my phone answerer found the information I needed and wished me a nice day with a smile in her voice. It's sad that this gets a mention on Horns Up (and yeah, it's kinda been a slow week in the good-things-happening-to-me department), but so many people in New York are just nasty and apathetic.

*When I find a song I really like, I don't download it or buy it on iTunes. Instead, I listen to it over and over on Youtube, often while trying to tune out the cheesy photo slideshow or anime montage some doofus on the internet has set to it. Sometimes it's hard, and I know there's a better way. Still, I Youtube it. I'm the worst kind of ignorant and cheap, I guess.

This embarrassing admission is meant to segue into the fact that I like Kanye's West debut album, The College Dropout. I listened to it when it came out pre-Youtube only because I was part of a shared music network with every person in my college dorm. And back then I listened to it frequently. This was the Kanye who was still shaky from the car accident, tired from singing through the wire. When I joined the New York Public Library, I requested the album, but later got an email explaining that the cd was AWOL. By this time, Kanye had contracted elephantitis of the ego, so I wasn't too upset.

At the fabulous John Legend concert, a dj opened by spinning some old Kanye. I was digging it again. So now I'm Youtubing it. I really like the reflective indignance of "Spaceship."

*When Cade was away I played. Well, grocery shopped, walked around in the spring-like weather, and read. I also added a new Diane von Furstenburg skirt to my collection, bringing my total DvF count to three. It was $9 at a thrift store and in perfect condition.



HORNS DOWN:

*It's spring...or not. It was in the seventies yesterday. It is currently sleeting. Powdery snow is piled everywhere. Ice menaces anyone trying to commute.

When I saw the ice cream trucks emerge last weekend, along with the street vendors and Large Neighbor on the front steps, I really thought spring had arrived. Don't get me wrong. I like snow, I really do. I'm just ready to leave the house without a down coat. I'm ready for the slight sting of sunburn, not sleet, on my cheeks.

*I awoke early on Sunday hoping to escape the Daylight Savings demons. I deemed the mission successful Monday and Tuesday. By Wednesday, I started putting two and two together. Could my brain be throwing itself against my skull's mooring each day after work, my spirit shrinking and growing tight as a chicken heart right off the spit, because I'm freakin' tired?

Apparently so. I fell asleep around 7:00 last night, woke up at 8:19, and went back to bed at 10:00. When I briefly woke up, I couldn't remember my name, where I'm from, and found I could no longer walk. This never happens for me without some sort of anesthesia...or on spring break in Mexico. I felt great this morning, but am feeling exhausted now. Zzzzzz.

*I've stayed at work late the last week for parent-teacher conferences. My school requires long conversations with each parent, and each teacher has ten to eleven students, so it's all very manageable. Or it would be if all parents would give a damn and show. Or be considerate and show on time. I've seen a lot of tears during these conferences, and a lot of promises from parents that their kids will be scared straight into a life of turning in homework, not losing materials, and getting to school on time.

Yeah, right.

If that were the case, maybe then I'd be able to stomach the thought of another year of teaching, of conducting these conferences, of feeling like the only person in my students' lives who actually values education.

I saw a Yahoo! headline earlier this evening that asked, "Do men like assertive women?" Not interested enough to click the headline, I moved on. A few minutes ago, I meandered onto the Yahoo! main page again, and the headline is different! It now reads, "Do men like aggressive women?"

Two adjectives, two very different connotations. I thought that was interesting.

What I Want To Say...

To You:

I'm conflicted. Part of me wants to pat you on the back and holler, "Just walk away, man! Walk away!" Another part of me worries about the mess you will be leaving for others to clean up. I do want you to know that if you're happy, I'm happy for you. You have always been kind and helpful, and you deserve to be in a place where people appreciate that.

And To You:

You. Me. Big life decisions together. You in?

YOU!

I'm currently looking into NYC tenants' rights and would love to organize and get you in a lot of trouble for your negligence in addressing sanitation issues.

And You:

Please beat your son's ass for me. Gratuitously.

Believe it or not, You:

I do not dislike or disrespect you. I'm sorry if I've spoken without thinking and you interpreted some of the things I've said as looking down on where you are in your life. Sometimes I speak without thinking how someone who doesn't know me or my personality that well will take it. And sometimes I say exactly the same things your best friend says, but these things are easier to stomach when they come from a familiar source. Sorry. I'll stop.

Let's not forget You:

You are really such a cool person. I love the conversations we have and the thoughts we share, and I'm so glad I met you. You also talk about stool samples while we're eating sandwiches, which is a big plus.

And lastly YOU:

At first, I felt disappointed that you have chosen not to publish yet another one of my stories. Then I looked at what you did choose and it was all very pious and heartwarming, and my work was not. Alright, I get it. But can you please accept my next piece? Please?

*I stole this from April. She calls it the "If it ain't in Texas, you don't need it" survey.

1. First of all, where in Texas have you lived?
Odem, Corpus Christi, Austin.

2. Where's your favorite place to chill in Texas?
My parents' house in Corpus? Zilker Park in Austin? The UT campus and surrounding Drag on a warm spring day? It's been a long time since I chilled in Texas.

3. Have you ever been on a boat in Lake Travis?
I've canoed on Town Lake, but that's not the same thing.

4. Do you go camping?
Once with my family when I was a kid. It was an experience Ernest Hemingway would have written about. We camped at Garner State Park. I remember lots of tubing, climbing Mount Baldy, and cooking Spaghettio's on a campfire. It made a real man out of me.

5. Do you use the word "ya'll"?
I did in the past, along with the phrase "fixin' to" and the word "spankin.'" Then I got all self-conscious about sounding like an idiot.

6. Have you ever owned a truck?
No, but almost every guy I dated in high school did. It was hot.

7. Have you ever had heat exhaustion?
My dad did once. He'd been working in the attic and then outdoors. Suddenly, he was vomiting and faint. It was frightening.

8. How many "Texas snows" have you witnessed?
Three. The history-making Corpus Christ white Christmas of 2005 and two others in Austin. Each time, all roads and businesses were completely shut down and Texas Rangers were called in for backup. All for two powdery inches.

9. Have you ever ice skated outdoors?
Not in Texas.

10. Have you ever squirted one of your parents with a water gun?
Probably. We used to keep water guns at home to torture/discipline our cats.

11. Do you prefer the Spurs or the Mavs?
I honestly don't know what sport they play.

12. Do you like the city or the country?
I prefer to live in the city, but I appreciate visits to the country.

13. Have you ever been sprayed by a skunk?
No, but I don't mind the smell. To me, it smells like pencil erasers. Hundreds of them.

14. Have you ever run over an armadillo?
Perhaps one that was already squashed and spread on the road.

15. Have you ever been to a Cowboys game?
Nope. But there was a picture of Troy Aikman hanging up in my school cafeteria back in the day. He likes milk.

16. Have you ever been to a Stars or an Icebats game?
I've been to an Icerays game. Hockey's fun.

17. What's your favorite Mexican food restaurant?
Kiko's in Corpus Christi. Ninfa's or Chuy's (yeah, I know it's actually Tex-Mex) in Austin.

18. Have you ever drank Shiner beer?
I'm not a beer drinker.

19. Have you ever been on a hayride?
I rode through a lot of grass and hay on a trailer at my grandpa's ranch once.

20. Have you ever ridden a horse?
A horse? Of course!

21. Were you in 4-H or FFA?
Hell no. I took Food Science as an elective in high school so I wouldn't have to learn to weld a barbeque pit or inseminate a pig in Agriculture class.

22. Which place in Texas has the best scenery/view?
Enchanted Rock in the Hill Country maybe. I really like the Greenbelt in Austin.

23. Which grocery store do you shop?
H.E.B. My mom lives la vida Super Wal-Mart.

24. Have you ever partied in a barn?
No, but I've milked a goat in one, which is kind of like a party.

25. Have you ever partied in a pasture?
No, but I've run around in one, which is kind of like a party getting busted.

26. Do you like keg beer?
No beer for me.

27. Are you Baptist?
No, but I attended a Baptist church for awhile. It led to my distrust of organized religion and conservatives.

28 Have you ever been swimming in a river or creek?
Yes, and I did not contract hepatitis.

29. How many presidents do you know lived in Texas?
LBJ and the Bush people.

30. Have you ever been on the Comal River?
Is that the one that runs through Schlitterbahn? If so, yes.

31. Is/was your school big?
High school = small. College = the biggest there is.

32. How many times have you been to Houston?
I'm not sure. Few. I've never even been to Dallas.

33. Have you ever ridden a mechanical bull?
Only the real thing for me, 'cause I'm a liar like that.

34. Have you ever been to the rodeo?
I dated the son of a professional barrel racer, so I saw her at the rodeo.

35. Do you own a cowboy hat?
I prefer sombreros.

My dad overhears my cousin Jessica, age three, say she hates something.

My dad: No, no. Don't say "hate." That's a bad word.

Jessica: Uh uh! "Dammit" and "goddammit" is a bad word!

My thought: She totally forgot my favorite Southern curse - "sumbitch".

Ex. That dumb sumbitch at Taco Bell put onions in my chalupa!

Making a living really gets in the way of having a life sometimes. In the past, much of this blog's content was job talk, often job ranting. Since I started working at a different school, I've kept job talk to a minimum. Mostly, I've written about the amusing things students have said. But lately things have been high pressure in this domain, and I'd be lying if I said the year has gone smoothly. More than ever, I take work and its stresses home. It's time to spill the beans.

There are some kids at work that I absolutely love. The kind of love that makes me want to exploit Cade's corporate memberships and take them to see all the city's cultural offerings or at least, a bookstore. The kind of love where I dream they are my own children. Overall, the students at my current school are nicer, more open, and less angry. They've not given up on the idea of school or the belief in their potential.

The problem here is the administration. This seems like a no brainer, but I didn't ever imagine I'd work in a NYC school I thought was too organized. You'd think it would be a reprieve from the chaos at I.S. 666, but instead it's just another extreme that doesn't work. My school is incredibly micro-managed. The principal oversees everything. I mean everything. On any given day, she will email me about my guided reading group, the staff bathroom, and which kids were not showing enough of their uniform logo.

I like that our school is small and that the principal doesn't just delegate everything to inferior drones. But I hate feeling like she's always breathing down the collective necks of the entire faculty, including me, just waiting to spot something she doesn't like.

For then there will be emails. Lots of emails. We get hundreds each day. Many are two to three lines. Some are rife with paragraphs and lists. There are even a few that are threatening. The big consequence where I work is having a "letter" put in your "file." These "letters" and "files" are notorious little trolls. I know nothing of them, except they supposedly exist. And apparently, if the principal doesn't like a chart on the wall - and you don't fix it - you can get one.

The big focus of the administration right now is transitions - literally how kids are walking to and from their classes. I teach middle school, so I deal with awkward and feisty social beings. They don't get to interact in class and they aren't supposed to interact between classes, either. "Supposed to" is the operative phrase here. Naturally, they fight us on this. They want to be normal middle schoolers with some free time fraternizing with their peers and lockers they don't have to earn. I don't blame them one bit.

However, in a meeting I had early on with my principal I was told that her philosophy was to nurture middle school students as they are nurtured in elementary school. This means giving them grades for effort, which means that turning in a reading log with only a name on it earns a 65. It also means rules for everything. Every. Thing. Including keeping talking and peer interaction to a minimum. It's mind-numbing and tedious to be expected to teach like this.

When I expressed concern that these students were being overly coddled and would not be prepared for the autonomy of high school - especially at the prestigious schools to which our students are pushed to apply - she replied, "Let their high school teachers worry about that. You help them be successful here."

I'm writing this after getting too many emails and even attending a meeting about the importance of harassing students into compliant, calm, and quiet lines through the halls. Ummm, what about the actual teaching part of the job? Getting them prepared for tests given by both the state and the real world? I signed up more for that battle.

*On a related note, it appears the principal has contracted food poisoning. She was out all day. This leads me to believe in karma, as she was just writing hostile emails to Elizabeth, one of my co-worker friends, who was out three days with e.coli last week. My principal had the audacity to tell Elizabeth that her problem was not an emergency that warranted being absent.

Look who has the runs now! Boo - I mean, Poo - ya!

Since I got back from Boston, I haven't done any new photo entries for a good reason - my hard drive was fuller than a glutton at a smorgasbord. I bought the nifty external hard drive my dad suggested, but delayed actually opening the box and tinkering with it until last night. Well, this morning actually. I'm not the most advanced computer user, and I demonstrate a kind of learned helplessness around anything involving the transfer of computer files. I like having someone near me when I try and mess with them. This way, if something gets screwed up, I can blame that person.

I did everything myself, however, so I finally got to upload the last roll of pictures I took before the hard drive unbuttoned the top button of its pants, unzipped, and decided to lie down on the couch indefinitely. The pictures are a hodgepodge of horses mostly. I lived one backyard away from my equine friends for eighteen years, yet only now can I appreciate them. Like children, horses smell, but some are alright.

I like when the horses get on the sidewalk, so long as they control their bowels.

I'd just gone to Sephora and was dying to know what Mr. Ed thought of the fragrance I'd tried.

The driver was catching his breath when this picture was taken. His horse had taken off running with no driver or overcharged passengers just a few minutes before. It was a funny sight.

My dad's daily litany of questions includes, "Have you gone to the Apple store lately?" My answer is nearly always a no. I don't like its sterility or location or hipster clientele. This picture is for my dad. The Apple store is in the background, and no, I did not go there.

Remember all those sack dresses Carrie wore during that one season of Sex and the City? That's what this picture reminds me of. And yeah, I guess I'm kind of a hater.

My infrequent visits to the post office have been known to trigger homicidal rage.

There was that one time that a nasty clerk made me cry on my birthday. She kept yelling at me to get back in line. This occurred after I had walked up to the unoccupied window twice to be served, having no idea that there was some man whose turn it was. Never mind that he kept leaving the periphery, as if done with his business... I had to wait for him to wander away for the final time before the clerk pointed at me to step forward. My jaw was clenched and I gave her the package slip without a word. She spent eternity looking for it. "Just to spite me," I thought. When she found it, she carelessly dropped it on the counter and shoved it in my direction. It was a birthday package from home. There was a picture of me hanging on a tree on the side of the box. The words, "Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! You look like a monkey, and you smell like one, too!" danced before me in my mom's handwriting. I was so angry about that mean old bitch treating me and my care package so disrespectfully.

Then there was the time I went to the post office and overheard a postal worker tell a customer - one who was being completely reasonable - to shut up and go fix her hair. Them's fightin' words! There was a lot of finger pointing and neck snapping that day. When it was my turn in line, I had to deal with a clerk who refused to look for my package because I didn't have a slip. Even after I explained that Amazon.com reported the package was delivered to the post office and that I had mistakenly not received a slip for a different package I'd received a few weeks ago. I merely asked her to check and see if there was a mistake. She refused. When I returned the next time with Cade, she finally looked for the package, and there it was! On a shelf somewhere, covered in dust!

But guess what? This is not an entry solely about going postal and how much I rue the USPS. I went to the post office yesterday to pick up a package from my parents. I knew things might get ugly, so I took a Xanax beforehand. Well, not really, but I ate lunch to prepare for battle. I walked inside and there he was. The one decent human being who works at my post office. I don't know his name, but he has always remembered mine and my box number. As soon as he saw me, he beamed, "Amanda! I have a big box for you!" It's been months since I've seen him, but he treats me like a friend. It's crazy. As per usual, I stood at the end of the line and he brought my box to me first. It makes me feel so much more important than I am, but contrary to what Cade believes, I am not the only one being doted on. An older man in line - the second to last person in line and next to get helped after me - gestured to my post office hero and said, "He's the only nice one here, I swear to ya. Always nice and remembers my name." I agreed. I've always thought I should ask to see his manager and recognize him for exceptional service, but have never really inquired about it. I'll have to before I move out of the neighborhood, whenever that may be.

So the package... The package represented the contradiction that is my parents. Carb-ridden, constipation-inducing processed snack foods AND bags of fibrous dried fruits. (On top of a box of "gentle, yet effective" laxatives - yee haw!) An elegant card from my mom AND a plastic cup of candy with the words "FROM DAD" in chicken scratch handwriting.

Best of all, I loved the note from my mom. Here's a passage about our geriatric bulldog:

"Abby is really showing her age these last few weeks. She has started peeing the bed in her sleep, and last night she puddled in the hallway. I'm thinking about getting her some Depends briefs to try. Am I weird, or what? A while back, she started having more trouble with her tummy so now I only make her chicken and rice with gravy to eat. She still gets treats and a little table meat scraps, but no canned dog food. Mind you, she's not complaining, and the air pollution is better. She also has become VERY DEAF. She farted loudly the other day and scared herself badly. Ah, the life of an old lady dog."

*I love my family.

*And my post office hero.

I chuckled when I saw this puzzling writing gig on Craigslist:

I am in need of a transgendered proofreader capable of editing a novel over the next six months. English must be your native tongue and you should be specifically good with spotting where commas go because my computer's comma key is broken. In my estimation the work will take you 4-5 hours per week. You can do it at home or I have a kitchen. Pay commensurate with experience. You will need to sign a traditional non-disclosure form about the book's plot and me. The book is about a Spanish boy and his adventures being elsewhere.

*Should I apply?

Alexus sneezes a powerful, snot wringing sneeze. I motion to the box of Kleenex on the table behind Bernice.

Me: Bernice, can you get some Kleenex for Alexus?

Bernice: Huh?

Me: KLEENEX. For Alexus. It's behind you.

Bernice: Oh! I thought you said "penis"!

The whole advisory freezes, and then begins to twitter. Bernice senses she's being laughed at, and immediately becomes defensive. She puffs out her chest.

Bernice: What? You never eat penis before?!

I bite my bottom lip and feel my eyes bouncing around like pinballs off of spring-loaded paddles. Everyone besides Bernice is silent, until Alexus has an epiphany.

Alexus: Oh! Bernice said "peanuts"!

Has anyone bought the dvd yet? Or plan to?

I love these prank call soundboards. Hilarious!

"I'm a cop, you eee-diot!"

I try to post on weekdays, so that I can provide some people with reading material while they're at work. Seriously. I know how I handle downtime at home and work, and it's disappointing when an old haunt is static. I don't want to be that way too often.

However, I am zonked. I'd say "pooped," but I hate when people say that. I taught my photography class and earned every single penny. I love that some of the kids are soooo into it. The few kids that are consummate pains in the arse? Whatever, not my DNA.

Then I had to stay late and find texts for an assessment tomorrow. My area is Special Education/Reading, but how sad is it that I have to give some of my fifth graders a picture book called Itchy, Itchy Chicken Pox to read? Not to mention that kids nowadays don't even get chicken pox. It's the equivalent of cholera to them.

Now I need to take a quick soak - I'm the master of the ten minute bubble bath - and do some writing that is due tomorrow. I'm not sure I'll get it done and will have to self-mutilate if my procrastination defeats me...again.

It's time to draw a bath now. I'll be blogging this weekend, as my boyfriend will be seeing fantasy films and wearing Land's End clothing with his friends in Pennsylvania. I'll be in New York, cuz Homey don't play dat.

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Cade and me not hitting it off on the first date.

We met when Cade saw a picture of me in a swimsuit on the Internet. (This is a story to tell the grandkids, fo sho). He didn't reveal this until months later. Instead he told me that I was "smarter and better looking than the average bear," which was flattering and showed that this Cade guy, however you pronounce his name, was familiar with Yogi Bear. I like that in a guy.

We were supposed to go to dinner and a movie, but the movie theatre doesn't actually exist. Cade made it up or something. Or maybe he was lost. Also, he made me meet him in midtown outside his office building and then walk to our destination. He offered to take the subway, but I politely refused. A cab or anything with WINDSHIELD WIPERS was not an option...

The straps of my shoes indented my ankles with red shackles. My skirt was too loose and spun around and around my waist, the zipper tightly reinforcing my buttcrack. I was a Kriss Kross video hoochie. When we finally agreed on food, settling for Two Boots Pizza, I made Cade turn his head so I could readjust my skirt. We ordered pizza and then I proceeded to tell Cade about all the other dates I'd been on. I started at age 16 and was almost to some crush I had my first semester of college, when Cade decided, "Damn. This girl is not very nice."

*I do remember we made each other laugh out loud a few times, so the date wasn't a total wash.

Nonetheless, we went out again. This time, it was casual. I wore flats and jeans. We ate Mexican food. I decided to exorcise the conversation of the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past. Cade ate off my plate, and I decided that we could definitely be friends.

And then I decided against that.

My life has changed a lot since this time last year. I live somewhere else, I do something else, I am someone else. Cade has been a part of all this change.

A few nights ago, a woman in the supermarket stole him away from me. "Can I trouble you to get something off the high shelf? I can't reach it."

Cade said, "Of course," and rescued a box of wheat crackers. He turned to me, and said, "You want to blog about this, don't you?"

He reads my mind sometimes.

Or there was that time that we saw the reflection of the city in the parking garage mirror, and I turned to him and said, "You think that would be a good picture."

"Yeah."

"I knew you were thinking that. So do I."

I hope he can read my mind about this (if not, here it is): That I love him in ways that shock me. That I feel completely at ease with him. That I'm over the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past and the skirt poltergeist. That I hope we celebrate March 6 again and again. And yes I get it, my initial judgement that his sense of direction is almost as bad as mine was way off.

*I've been meaning to do some kind of media entry for awhile, but I've been spending most of my time and energy being antsy, scrambling around at work, and of course, dutch oven-ing myself. (That's for Stacey). 1) is really long-winded, I know, so you may want to wait until you're at work to read it.

1)Though it must have always been in me, like a forever dormant appendix that suddenly throbs and painfully contorts in one day, it really began to manifest itself my junior year of college. I was an RA and lived where I worked, a precarious arrangement. I'm not normally a confrontational person, but I'm not laid back, either. I felt divided between the obligation to address every little indiscretion, even when I was tired and running to class, and the desire to mind my own business.

I started to miss staff meetings, dorm programs, and social gatherings with co-workers. I pretended to be disappointed when a class conflicted with staff meetings, but really, I was ecstatic.

On top of this aversion to socialization at work, which is somewhat understandable, I pulled away from other peer groups. One summer, I was part of a Shakespeare program that took me and ten other girls to a bed and breakfast for three day stretches. There we immersed ourselves in The Bard and screechy summer nights and whatever alcohol we smuggled onto the premises.

Well, they did. I'd just turned 21 and hadn't any alcoholic palate. That and I was anti-social. I'd stay in my room at night, working on my scene from "The Tempest" and reading feminist non-fiction. Peals of laughter swam under the bottom crack of the door, rendering my bookmark a failure. I plugged my ears with a clotty down pillow and tossed about restlessly.

As stereotypically "lonely" as this sounds, I never felt ashamed of myself. Not usually. I definitely never felt lonely. I really enjoy alone time - and have ever since I was a kid - whether it's taking long walks down crowded streets or curling up with a book in bed. From ages five to fourteen, I'd swing for hours on a swingset in my backyard almost every day. This was my time to think, talk to myself, and sing.

This weekend, Cade's going to Pennsylvania and I'm really excited about not joining him. I'm definitely going to ask some girlfriends at work if they want to hang out, but the majority of the time will be in solitude. Eating what I want, going where I want, staying up as late as I want. As much as I love time with Cade, I don't get to call all the shots when we're together. I like doing that and getting to miss him sometimes.

I've always known I was different, and knew some people would think I should feel ashamed maybe or abnormal. But I can't apologize for preferring my own company over hanging out with most people. Of course, there are some people I feel comfortable around and enjoy so much that I seek them out. But I'd never want to spend all my time with someone else. It's funny that I never thought much about it until recently.

The books that have prompted my recent reflection are Quirkyalone: A Manifesto for Uncompromising Romantics and Party of One: A Loner's Manifesto. (I'm a quirkytogether). Who knew people were writing about - even celebrating - loners today and in antiquity? Not me. It makes me feel that I'm in good company.

2) I fancy myself a very suspicious person, though I know I look like a Girl Scout. I also fancy myself a woman with a "dyke vibe." That's the term I use, and I don't mean "dyke" in a pejorative way. Rather, a reclaimed way. Maybe it's because the word was hurled at me by a lot of close-minded, ignorant people when I was growing up. I'm not sure why. Probably because I was gawkward - another of my linguistic creations that is sadly, too apt - and didn't like the boys or act much like the other girls. Or maybe the vibe really is there. I know numerous people have suspected that I might play for the other team; some have even tried to recruit me.

Whatever the case, I was reading one of Alison Bechdel's collections of the comic strip, Dykes To Watch Out For one day on the subway. (After reading the amazing Fun Home, I decided I love Bechdel and desperately want her to be my friend. She can hang out with David Sedaris and me). Any book with the word "DYKES" on the cover is bound to get attention, but I usually have books on my lap or handbag. On this particular day, I had to stand on a crowded weekend train and endure all the gossip and speculation at my book title. In English and Spanish. There was blatant pointing and sizing up of my outfit.

I was standing in front of these teenage girls who were craning their necks and trying to read the comics inside. Up to this point, I was cool. "I'm progressive, I'm open-minded and in the know," I thought. "I pity the fools who don't know Alison Bechdel."

Then I opened the book to a page in which a character gives herself a monthly breast exam. The girls totally lost it, and I felt a teensy bit embarrassed. Not because there's any shame in lesbians or breast exams, but because I was reading what some dumb teenagers perceived to be a dirty comic book. I'm too young to be branded a pervert!

In the end, I sucked it up, and gave them a look as if I'm a dyke to watch out for. I don't think they bought it, but they did ask if I had some Thin Mints.

The book recommendation part: Alison Bechdel's work is great. D.T.W.O.F. is good, but Fun Home makes for easier reading on public transportation and is amazing.

3) I meant to only write about books, but I've seen three films in recent history that I really enjoyed.

a. Shut Up And Sing - It's the Dixie Chicks documentary! I met someone who edited the film my first summer in NYC. I love Natalie Maines's voice and the sheer girl power of the group, but never knew just how much backlash they faced when Maines made that famous comment about being ashamed Bush is from Texas.

My response: Bush is not even FROM Texas.

The documentary really shows the Chicks as people, and I've since invited them all to be best friends with me, David Sedaris, and Alison Bechdel.

b. The Boys of Baraka - This documentary follows some inner-city Baltimore boys who get selected to attend a school program in Africa. It's poignant, and the film commentary is really thought-provoking. I highly recommend it.

c. Love and Basketball - How did I get through a minor in Women's Studies, taking such courses as Gender, Class, and Ethnicity in American Literature and Film and not see this? The protagonist is a strong, determined, female athlete. The soundtrack is groovy. The love story is dynamic. I cried, laughed, and listened to the commentary. Then I listened to songs from the movie all the next day like a sucker.

4) I've just started reading Garbage Land, a nonfiction work written by a Brooklyn conservationist who decides to follow her trash and see where it ends up. She tags along with sanitation workers, studies trash with waste experts, and even canoes in the Gowanus Canal. Ewww! Fascinating, grimy stuff. And yes, the word "anus" does seem to represent the quality of that body of water.

HORNS UP:

*Fresh air, clean snow, butter churns, here I come! I'm going upstate tomorrow. It's just on a field trip to a restored colonial village, but I like getting out of the city.

*I finished watching season 2 of The Office last weekend. It was great, but I had to fight the funk as the end neared. I don't expect to love season 3 as much, but am looking forward to watching it.

*The last two days have been warmer. Still in the forties, but warmer. I'm ready to professionally clean and pack away my down coat for the season. It's germy, and the only two ways to clean it are dry cleaning or wiping it down. I'm cheap, so while it looks clean, it harbors as much grime as a seat on the subway.

*My guided reading groups at work have been working especially well these last few days. Many of the regular ed kids are asking to be included, which is a huge compliment.


HORNS DOWN:

*It was unnerving when I was walking around the Upper West Side with Cade, and recognized a woman whose blog I have read. (I checked it out a few times when I found you she reads mine). I've seen many pictures of her and her boyfriend, but have never even written a comment to her or anything. And there she was; I know it was her. It was really creepy. Not a celebrity sighting, but eery. I didn't make eye contact, because I wondered if she'd recognize me. What would we say? Anything?

*The New York Public Library has done it again. Somehow seven of the books that have been on hold for me over the last six months are now available and cluttering up my nightstand. Of course, I'm now too anxious and restless to read for more than ten minutes at a time. I'm trying to finish at least one book this week, but I'd honestly rather sit in a hot bath.

*The restlessness. The anxiety over others. The poor sleep and waking up in the middle of the night with stomach pain.

*As much as I'm excited about the field trip tomorrow, I know the hours long charter bus ride has the potential to be headpoundingly unbearable, especially since the kids and teachers aren't allowed to bring electronic devices to tune each other out. Dear Gods, please let there not be sing-alongs!